The Pygmalion Syndrome
by Nocturnallydamned
Summary: Ever wondered what might happen if Raziel actually turned up at your house? Caution: involves more than the usual blurring of the lines between reality and fantasy. Tum tee tum . . . reality? Nah. Gave it up for lent.


Disclaimer: I don't own Legacy of Kain or Raziel.  They are the property of Eidos/Crystal Dynamics.

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**The Pygmalion Syndrome**

I've always had a thing for Raziel

Pre-fallen Raziel, of course.  Ever since the first time I saw that opening sequence for Soul Reaver, I've had a minor obsession.  I often think my fascination stems from the touching story of the hard-done-by anti-hero, seeking revenge against the father figure who damned him.  Heh.  Truth is, I always did have a thing for guys in leather – just look at my track record.  Just substitute the pseudo-bondage gear of the Legacy of Kain Vampire legions for the pseudo-bondage gear of the contemporary biker-punk-metaller creed, and there you have it: my obsession.

My other half is working late tonight, and so the collection has come out, and is spread willy-nilly all over the table in the spare room.  I've stashed away the sewing machines, hung up the stinking bridesmaid's dresses and made way for some 'me' time.  Again.  I potter about until I'm happy with the arrangement and sit back in my chair with a smug smile.  I've got my Lieutenant Raziel figure perched on top of my box of buttons in a suitably heroic pose, to all appearances casting an appreciative eye over the piles of paper on the table.  I adjust his arm joint again – it's never been completely right.  Every time I push it back so that the join closes, it slowly but surely opens up again with the fullness of time.  If it wasn't a moveable joint, I'd be tempted to get the superglue.

I turn back to the table.  His face is everywhere.  This is what I've been spending my precious procrastination time on over the last few months.  I've been drawing Raziel.  There's something eminently satisfying about putting pencil to paper: something that goes deeper than the superficial sketching of an outline.  It's as though, in the creation of the picture, I'm somehow creating the person; as if, in determining his expression and controlling his pose, I'm making him mine.  It's a completely ridiculous idea of course.  Raziel belongs to some lucky bod at Crystal Dynamics, not me.  Anyway, I digress.  I've been drawing the first Lieutenant repeatedly in recent months, and have consequently ended up with somewhere close to thirty-five portraits, each in various stages of completion, and these are splayed about the tabletop in such a way that his face is peeking out at me from each one.  

They're not all the same, of course.  I have pictures that range from full-face close-ups to full-length action poses; there's Raziel swinging the Soul Reaver at Kain (I  know it's not possible – it's artistic license, OK?), Raziel crouching on top a gothic tower, looking down at the darkened streets of a town (Meridian, perhaps), Raziel, bare-chested, trying out his wings for the first time, Raziel in the bath (yeah, I know he couldn't actually do that – maybe it's blood?  Ugh!  I've gone and made myself shudder now), Raziel naked on a massive four-poster bed (pure self-indulgence), and – my favourite at the moment - Raziel looking pissed-off and defeated in a paddling-pool full of custard.

I really must get around to adding the yellow to that picture.

The front door creaks in the wind and I glance behind me, wishing the room was big enough for me to put my chair somewhere other than with my back to the door.  No such luck.  The spare room is crammed (and not tidily crammed, either) with the dressmaking paraphernalia of 5 years, innumerable role-playing books gathering dust, Buffy figures, Warhammer miniatures, more cheesy horror novels than you could shake a stick at, and my guitar which, no matter where I seem to put it, is always in the way.  I turn back to my pictures, selecting a suitably day-glo yellow pencil from the pot, and prepare to cover Raziel in custard.

The door creaks again.  It must have been louder this time, because I can hear it far too well over the Murderdolls as they screech their way through 'Dead in Hollywood'.  It must be blowing a gale out there tonight, though it's not unusual.  You get used to it: it's one of the necessary evils of living on the coast.  As my gaze returns to the dessert-covered vampire, something in the full-length mirror to my right catches my eye.  Whatever it is, it's big.  You know that feeling you get sometimes when you're alone at night?  The one where you're absolutely certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that there's someone in the room with you?  The one where the shadows don't look right, and you have the impression that something extra has been added to the finite number of objects in your personal living space?  I'm terrible for falling for it when I'm on my own.  On the rare occasions I have to sleep alone, I often leave the light on, just so that the mangled shadows stay where – and how - they are.  I also suffer from hallucinogogic dreams.  For the uninitiated: you're half-awake, half-asleep and so convinced that the lizard-man trying to nick your favourite undies is real that you wake your partner up to tell him.  Yup.  It's official.  I'm a nutcase.  And I sleep with the light on.

I digress again.  The flicker of 'wrongness' in the mirror catches my eye and I turn to face it, already telling myself off for being a silly girl, and increasingly tempted by the lure of a hot, sweet cup of tea.  My heart stops.  Just for a moment I can hear the last thud echoing and I wonder if it's going to start again.  This is definitely a secondary consideration, though.  Who cares if my heart's beating when there's a vampire in my spare room?

I've often run through this situation in my mind, and I doubt if I'm alone in this.  What would I say to Raziel if I were to meet him?  All the witty one-liners I ever thought of vanish into thin air and all  that's left is inane clichés.  I run through them in my head: 'Hello, big boy,' and 'I like your trousers,' and 'Do you work out?'.  I take one look at this thing whose presence is practically filling my spare room before abandoning all attempts at speech.  He is massive.  And I do mean massive.  I mean, the guy must have more muscle than Schwarzenegger, Van Damme and Hulk Hogan put together.  I doubt he could get through the doorway without ducking – or turning sideways for that matter.  Just as my train of thought dazzles me with humorous pictures of Raziel shuffling crab-like through the door, I realise that he's looking at me.  Well, of course he is – I'm the only other animate (and I use the word loosely at this juncture) object in the room.  I feel I should say something, like: 'Welcome to Earth!', or 'Did you have a nice trip?', or 'Would you like to sit down?'.  I open my mouth to speak and it makes this amazing popping sound, accompanied by a rapid opening and closing motion that would have made my goldfish proud.  I fall back on the safe bet.  I smile.  OK, so it's not much of a smile, more of a panicked grin, which fades slowly as I realise he's not smiling back.

I take a quick time-out from my attempts at communication (my teachers would be most unimpressed – I'm quadlingual for God's sake!) to take a closer look at my uninvited guest.  He looks very much as he did in the opening sequence to Soul Reaver, all smooth skin, dark lips and great taste in clothes - with a couple of major differences: he has not yet acquired the wings, and there seems to be something dreadfully wrong with his left arm.  Before I can ponder too much on this anomaly, a flicker of movement captures my attention.  He has shifted his claw (that's massive too) to point at his own chest, and, since my feeble efforts at conversation have failed, appears to be trying to say something.

"_"

I blink in response, my ears straining to catch the unfamiliar syllables as they flow from his mouth in that lovely light baritone of his.  

"_"

He repeats himself and this time I think I get it.  He's introducing himself.  How polite!  As he reiterates the phrase for a third time, I catch it in its entirety.  He is indeed saying 'Raziel', but I failed to realise that originally for the depth of accent in the word.  The 'R' comes out in a trill like some overacting Shakespearean thespian; the 'a' is flat and base; the 'z' and 'i' seem to flow together to make a strong sibilant, and the 'e' sounds distinctly French.

Belatedly remembering my manners, I stammer my own introduction and (wonder of wonders) get a smile in response.  He nods.  He gets it.  I grin back.  This is great - my very own First Contact.  My happiness turns to complete embarrassment as I realise he can see the pictures on the table and is looking dangerously amused.

A little voice is nagging me. In the moments between those where I get stuck thinking how amazing he looks, my inner alarm system, my voice of sanity (it's really quiet) is telling me that there is a strange man in my house – not only is he carrying several weapons, and plenty dangerous enough without them, but I really should be figuring out why his arm is deformed.  I ignore it.  I can hardly hear it over the CD anyway.  The random selector has chosen 'Such Pretty Things' from some dodgy old goth compilation and I get sidetracked listening to the words while watching him looking at his images on the table.  

_"And I'll not embrace the sun . . ."_

He picks one up, frowning.

"_For my world is torn in two . . ."_

It's him covered in custard.  It would be, wouldn't it?

_"I feel a greater pull towards . . ."_

I knock the naked one on the floor before he sees it.

_"My gentle sister moon . . ."_

The flutter catches his eye and he puts down the custard drawing.

_"And I'll cloak myself in night . . ."_

I can see what's wrong with his arm.

_"To conceal this savage skin . . ."_

I can also see that my Lieutenant Raziel figure is gone.

_"And walk amongst . . ."_

I'm reminded at last of Pygmalion, and my inner voice is screaming out the message it had tried to get across to me earlier.  _You did it you silly bint you did the same thing he did you poured all your creativity into the creation of a single image and now look what's happened he's here he's real and he's completely and utterly evil._

Alarmed, I grab the scalpel I'd been planning to use to cut around the edge of a picture I liked, but whose background I detested.

_"Such pretty things . . ."_

There is a blur of speed and a swipe too fast for my eyes to follow, and it's then that it dawns on me.  Raziel is a _vampire. He's not a nice guy.  He's not some idolised anti-hero who's automatically going to have a soft spot for the ladies.  He's not here for a casual visit, and he doesn't care how – or by whose hand – he got here.  He's a vicious killer, just like the rest of them, and he's about to prove this point.  I realise this moments before the floor comes rushing up to meet me.  God, I need to hoover!  I can see the back of his bronze greaves as he stalks from the room – I'd always wondered how they were fastened.  I watch his vain attempts at opening the front door – I doubt they have Yale locks on Nosgoth – before he punches straight through three inches of solid wood, wrenches the splintered door off its hinges and makes his exit into the blustery night._

As his footsteps fade into the distance, I am overcome with the horrible realisation that my intestines clash with the carpet, and think – though why the hell I'm thinking this with Death tapping his bony foot in impatience next to my head, waiting for me to die, I have no idea – that I'd better get a move on and clean it up, because my boyfriend's grandparents are coming to dinner and I haven't fumigated the bathroom yet.

I just hope when they find me, they'll realise it was a CGI vampire that did it.

Nothing to do with the bloody scalpel in my hand.

**Author's note.******

Had this story in my head for a few weeks now.  Forced itself out (as they usually do).  Bummer.  Really wanted to update Torment today.  Ho-hum.  Swings last shred of sanity about (it's wound around a yo-yo).


End file.
